


Be Careful What You Wish For

by KaticaLocke



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crack, Fantasy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:59:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaticaLocke/pseuds/KaticaLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch is having no luck finding a partner to help him save the irrelevant numbers, but when a bit of retail therapy in an antique store serendipitously delivers Reese into his service, it's a dream come true. Or is it? By the time he reads the fine print, it's too late to stop and Finch finds himself indebted to a creature that asks for more than he may be willing to pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I swear, most of my plot-bunnies are nice, normal fellows. Maybe they drink a bit too much around the holidays, but who doesn't? And then there's Sebastian. He's the skinny one in the corner with the moth-eaten fur and bad teeth, a glass pipe in one paw. Yes, I have a crack-smoking plot-bunny. I've tried to get help for him, but he retaliates by throwing ideas at me, ideas like this one, which get stuck in my brain and interfere with the writing of my respectable fanfics. So you can blame Sebastian for this one.

I'm running out of time. Or rather, Diane Hanson is. She's the most recent number on my List, but I cannot for the life of me understand what she is involved in. Some numbers are easy, the threat obvious, but not this time. As a prosecutor for the District Attorney, she has a long list of enemies, although it has recently grown a little shorter.  
  
Pope, the man she was trying to put behind bars, was stabbed to death in his cell just last night, and the man's younger brother, Michael, was found dead in the street, executed by one of the city's many gangs. Pope had been my prime suspect until then, which just proved how useless I was. I need a partner, someone with the skills to take the knowledge I have and act on it, but so far, my quest has been in vain. I've looked at ex-soldiers and special forces, former FBI and CIA, but invariably the reason why they're no longer employed with said agency is the same reason that I can't hire them. I don't have time to deal with alcoholics or drug addicts, and I can't condone giving the psychologically unstable the means and permission to start stalking people.  
  
I try to relieve my frustration with a walk to a nearby antique dealer. I used to jog in the park to clear my head, or run on a treadmill, but these days all I can manage is a laborious, lurching walk that is often as painful as it is unsightly. I've been visiting this store for years, though the owner still doesn't know my name. I, on the other hand, know everything about him, everything one can find in this day and age of digital information. He greets me with a friendly smile and a wave as I enter the cluttered little shop, but he knows better than to try and sell me anything. If there's anything worth buying, I'll find it on my own. I need the quiet, the ritual of searching through the shelves of knickknacks and dusty books, the tactile feel of smooth porcelain and old leather.  
  
After an hour, all I've found is a first edition of John Payne's English translation of the _One Thousand and One Nights_. Arabian folk tales don't particularly interest me, but I find it hard to pass up a two hundred year old book in good condition. Plus, it's not like I have a shortage of room -- I own a library.  
  
I carry my find up to the counter and the shop owner, Daniel Baxter, a seventy-two year old widower and father of three, rings up the purchase. As I hand over a twenty, the sleeve of my jacket catches on an old, tarnished oil lamp and knocks it over.  
  
"You break it, you bought it," he says.  
  
With a frown, I stand the lamp back up. "It's not even scratched," I tell him.  
  
"I know," he says with a sigh. "It was worth a shot, though. I'm about ready to toss that old thing in the dumpster."  
  
"Why?" I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. It's certainly old, quite heavy, most definitely brass, with a thick, blue-green patina on the metal, making it impossible to read any sort of maker's mark.  
  
"That hunk of junk has been kicking around this shop for twenty years. One of the first purchases I made to stock the store was the leftovers from an estate sale, and that damn lamp was part of it. Nobody wants the thing. I probably couldn't give it away."  
  
"I'll take it," I say and he gives me a sideways look, like he's expecting me to be joking. "It'll put it on the shelf with my new book."  
  
"Ah, like the genie in the lamp," he says with a smile, holding out my change.  
  
"Keep it," I say, picking up my acquisitions, "for the lamp."  
  
"I should be paying you to take it," he says with a chuckle. "Thanks."  
  
I leave, heading back to my library. At the corner, I stop to wait for the light and glance down at the lamp in my hand. I don't know what I was thinking. I don't put knickknacks and trinkets on the shelves with my books. The books are locked away behind ornate steel gates secured with a padlock. Oh, well. Maybe I can clean it up and sell it on Ebay.  
  
Back in the cool, quiet interior of my library, I place the book on a shelf and sit down at my workstation, half a dozen computer monitors arranged across the top of one of the old library tables. I do a bit more searching, looking for new information on Diane Hanson, hunting for a suitable partner, and checking my Machine to see if any new numbers have come up, but on all accounts I get nothing.  
  
I sigh and lean back in my chair, absently adjusting my leg to relieve the ache in my hip. I hate this. I hate being useless. I would give anything, do _anything_ if I could only help these people. What is the use of having the knowledge if I can't do anything about it? Now I know how Cassandra felt.  
  
After a moment, I reach over and pick up my new lamp. I'm going to need some kind of metal polish, which I think I might have in a cupboard somewhere, but I don't feel like getting up to look. Instead, I pull out my handkerchief and begin to rub the side of the bowl.  
  
Suddenly, the lamp begins to shake in my hand and I nearly drop it as a stream of dark blue smoke issues from the mouth, coiling around my chair like a living thing before condensing a few feet away. I blink, my mouth hanging open, as the smoke dissipates, revealing a tall man with darkly tanned skin and blue eyes, his black hair cut short with silver sparkling at the temples, wearing a most unbelievable outfit of golden slippers and pale blue silk pants, with a hoop of gold in one ear and wide gold bracelets on both wrists.  
  
The man looks around the room, his expression intense, observant, and then he sees me. I jump as he bows. "What dost thou wish of me, Master?"  
  
"I- I beg you pardon?" I ask, barely louder than a whisper.  
  
He straightens and takes a step toward me, cocking his head to one side as he studies me, those penetrative blue eyes seeming to see right into the depths of me. "What year is this?"  
  
Taken aback, I moisten my dry lips before answering. "Two thousand twelve."  
  
His eyebrows rise a fraction and for a moment he looks surprised. Then he nods at the lamp. "Where did you get that?"  
  
"An antique shop. Is it yours?"  
  
"In a way. You don't know what it is, do you?"  
  
I glance down at it, then back up at him. "I'd say it was a magic lamp, but then I'd have to check myself into a psychiatric hospital."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because magic lamps don't exist."  
  
He arches an eyebrow at me. "Then where do genies live?"  
  
"They don't exist either."  
  
"Then what am I?"  
  
"You..." I stare at him, at a loss for words. "You are a hallucination brought on by stress."  
  
"You're not hallucinating."  
  
"That's the thing, hallucinations can be very convincing." There's a note of hysteria in my voice and I force myself to stop, to close my eyes, to take a deep breath. When I open them again, he's still there. "If you're not a hallucination, prove it."  
  
"How?"  
  
"You say you're a genie?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Genies grant wishes, correct?"  
  
He nods again.  
  
"Then if I make a wish and you're really not real, then it won't come true and I'll know I'm crazy."  
  
"I suppose that's one way to put it," the man says. "And when I grant your wish, will you believe in me then?"  
  
I hesitate. "I suppose I'll have to." Now I just need to think of a wish, something that could never happen by luck or by chance, something that couldn't be part of the hallucination, like wishing for an elephant or Marilyn Monroe.  
  
"Before you decide on anything, there are a few things you should know. My powers do have limitations."  
  
"Convenient."  
  
He gives me a dark look. "I can't bring the dead back to life, so think carefully before you wish me to kill anyone. I can't interfere with a person's free will, so I can't make someone fall in love with you or grant world peace. I also cannot effect events outside of this moment in time, so I can't change anything in the past. Other than that, your wish is my command."  
  
"And I get three of them?"  
  
"The first three are free," he says. "If you want more after that, you'll have to pay for them."  
  
"How much?"  
  
"It depends on the size of the wish. If you want a ham sandwich, it won't cost much. If you want a mountain named after you..."  
  
"Why would I want that?"  
  
He shrugs. "You'd be surprised what some people have wished for."  
  
We stare at each other for several minutes. Finally, I turn away, set the lamp down on the table, and scoot my chair back up to the desk. "I don't have time for a mental breakdown," I say, trying to focus on the screens before me, "and I don't have time to think up some stupid wish."  
  
"I could help," he suggests. "Tell me what you want. Tell me your hopes and dreams, your secret fantasies and deepest fears."  
  
"I don't think so," I say with a frown. "I'm a very private person."  
  
He makes a frustrated noise. "Please, Master, don't do this to me. Do you have any idea how long I've been trapped in that lamp?"  
  
"No," I say, "and don't call me Master. You can call me Mr. Finch." I hesitate; he seems nice enough, but do I really want to get friendly with a figment of my imagination? "Do you have a name?"  
  
"I've had many. Most recently I was called Reese."  
  
"Reese..." I repeat. "That will do just fine."  
  
"I prefer John, actually."  
  
John...that might be a little too familiar, especially for something that was trying to ruin my day. "I prefer Mr. Reese, if you don't mind."  
  
"As you wish, Master Finch," Reese says. I open my mouth to correct him, but then close it again. There's no point in arguing with a hallucination. "What are you doing?" he asks after a moment.  
  
"Working."  
  
"On what?"  
  
"It's--" I stop before I tell him it's none of his business. Perhaps it would help to talk it over with someone, even if that someone is most likely a manifestation of my subconscious. It's not like he's going to tell anyone. "We are being watched," I say. "The government has a secret system, a machine that spies on everyone, every hour of every day. I know because I built it. I designed the Machine to detect acts of terror, but it sees everything, violent crimes against ordinary people, people like her--" I pull up a picture of Diane Hanson on one of the monitors. "Crimes that the government considered irrelevant. They wouldn't act so I decided I would, but...I can't do it on my own. I need a partner, someone with the skills to intervene, but I can't find anyone and she's running out of time." I sigh and rest my chin on my fist. "I just wish I knew why the Machine picked her."  
  
A cold gust of wind ruffles my hair and I turn in my chair, my eyes growing wide as that blue smoke billows around Reese again. "Your wish is my command," he says and as I realize what I had said, he vanishes. I glance around the room, then get up and limp down the hall, peering into the dark and dusty unused rooms that I pass, but I'm alone again. Still. I'm no longer hallucinating. Good riddance.  
  
I return to my workstation, eyeing the lamp warily before picking it up. I look around for a suitable place to put it, my eyes lighting on the old card catalogue. I use it to store tools and supplies for repairing my electronics as well as the outdated wiring in this place, but the big bottom drawer is mostly empty. I place the lamp in with a roll of electrical tape and a pair of wire strippers. There. I shut the drawer and limp back to my chair. It was an entertaining flight of fancy, a moment of harmless delirium, but it's over now and I need to get back to work. A woman's life depends on me. Again.


	2. Chapter 2

It's almost dark when the hallucination returns. I had gone into the 'lounge' area where I kept a small refrigerator and portable hotplate to make myself a cup of tea, and when I came back, I found him sitting in my chair, a rather smug look on his handsome face.  
  
I almost don't recognize him; no longer is he wearing silk pants and slippers, but a black suit over a white shirt with the top three buttons undone. The earring is gone, but I think I can see a glint of gold from his bracelets under the cuffs of his sleeves. He looks like a day-trader on casual Friday.  
  
"I hope you don't mind, I thought the Persian outfit was a little too conspicuous," he says, giving his open collar a slight tug.  
  
"You're back," I say, trying to resist the urge to panic. Tumor? Aneurysm? Stroke? Accidental ingestion of a psychotropic substance? I decide to make an appointment at one of the clinics that I own. A CAT scan probably wouldn't hurt. I limp over to the table where I'd left my cell phone, trying not to spill my tea as my hand shakes.  
  
"Your wish has been granted," he says as I set my mug down and reach for the phone. The motion strains the damaged muscles in my lower back and I wince, drawing my arm back. "Are you all right?"  
  
"You're in my way," I say, refusing to look at him. He pushes away from the table, the chair rolling backward over the cement floor. I step in front of him and pick up the phone.  
  
"I can fix that, you know," he says and I jump as I feel his hands on my hips. He's very strong and surprisingly... _tangible_ for a hallucination. "All you have to do is make a wish."  
  
I push his hands away and move back, frowning down at my cell as I try to remember the number for the nearest clinic.  
  
"Did you hear me?" he asks after a moment. "I said your wish had been granted. Don't you want to know why your Machine gave you her number?"  
  
I hesitate. "Why?"  
  
"She's involved with a gang of corrupt cops," he says. "Instead of arresting drug dealers, they murder them and steal their product, which they then sell back to other dealers. It's her job to frame up petty criminals for the killings so that no one gets suspicious, but her co-counsel, a man named Wheeler, is on to her, so she's sending her dirty cop lackeys to kill him. Tonight. Right now, probably. And I took the liberty of looking in on him -- he's got his son with him, so the boy will either be killed as well, or he'll witness his father's murder."  
  
I stare at him, dumbfounded. What he's saying cannot be accurate, he can't know that, but as I turn the facts over in my head, comparing them to information I had gathered on my own, bits and pieces that made no sense without a big picture to look at, all the fragments fall neatly into place. There's no reason why he can't be right.  
  
Except for the fact that _he's not real._  
  
But what if he is? And what if he's right? And what if I don't do something and two more lives are lost? Can I live with that?  
  
"Can you stop it?" I ask him.  
  
"Of course," he says. "Just make a wish."  
  
I take a deep breath. This is insane. "I wish...you would stop Diane Hanson and the corrupt cops."  
  
"Your wish is my command, Master Finch." He gives me a brief, crooked smile, then vanishes in another flourish of smoke. I'm shaking as I sink into my chair, now that he's vacated it. The seat is warm. This is an extremely detailed delusion.  
  
I sit and sip my tea, my eyes unfocused, staring at nothing while my mind wanders. I thought about calling the police and leaving an anonymous tip on the attempt on Wheeler's life, but there are so many dirty cops in the NYPD. If I'm crazy and making this all up in my head, I don't want the wrong people thinking Wheeler is a threat. Or Hanson, for that matter, if this is all a bunch of bullshit. And if it's not, if Reese is real -- _God help me for even considering it_ \-- I don't want those dirty cops being warned off the hit. They'd just try again later, perhaps at a time when Reese isn't there to stop them.  
  
I wait all night for him to return. I fall asleep at the table, my head pillowed on one arm, turned as far to one side as it will go, and I wake up at dawn exhausted and stiff. I groan as I rub my neck, biting back a whimper as I lever myself out of the chair and hobble down the hall to the bathroom. When I return, I'm actually relieved to find my chair occupied.  
  
"Well?" I say.  
  
He gives me a small, self-satisfied smile. "Your wish has been granted."  
  
"Wheeler and his son are alive?"  
  
"They never even knew they were in danger," he says. "Diane Hanson is in police custody. One of her corrupt cop buddies is with her, another is in the hospital, and the third is dead."  
  
"Dead?" I repeat, feeling like my heart has stopped. "You killed him?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"I didn't tell you to kill anyone!"  
  
"You didn't tell me not to," he replies with a frown. "He was a vicious, greedy son-of-a-bitch and I had no choice. You said to 'stop them' and I did. Next time, be more specific."  
  
"I'm sorry, I-- Next time?"  
  
"Yes, you have at least one more wish left."  
  
"One more free one, then I have to pay."  
  
"That's right. It's like an introductory offer, to give you an idea of what you can get if you choose to keep wishing."  
  
"And if I choose not to? If I take my three free wishes and stop?"  
  
"I'll be very sad, but that's your prerogative. I won't do anything to you to make you keep wishing. So what can I do for you, Master Finch? Put an end to that ache in your neck? Get rid of that limp? Say the word and I can make you as good as new."  
  
"No," I say, turning away before the temptation has a chance to get a hold of me. I deserve to be this way. It is penance for my arrogance, and if I can't wish my dead friend back to life, then I can't wish away my punishment for his death, either. "I'm going to save it until I can use it to help someone," I say. "I'll let you know when I have another number."  
  
"As you wish," he says, his voice soft. "You know where to find me."  
  
When I turn back around, he's gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days pass before the Machine flags another number. This one is fairly straightforward -- a scorned wife has hired two hit-men to take care of her cheating husband. Beats a messy divorce, I suppose. My first thought is to call him, warn him, but that approach has met with limited success. I could arrange an impromptu business meeting with a wealthy potential new client to disrupt his routine and foil the hit, but that would just be delaying the inevitable. I need to stop it from happening.  
  
I sit and stare at the card catalogue for over an hour, feeling the time tick away, like hourglass sand falling in the pit of my stomach. I haven't let myself think about Reese since he disappeared, not even when I read about Diane Hanson's arrest in the papers. I don't want to believe in him, I don't want to put my faith, my hope, into something as enduring as a soap bubble. The man is a myth, a fantasy, a daydream, and I don't want to be disappointed by reality when I finally wake up.  
  
I can't wait any longer. I open the drawer and take out the lamp. It feels warm in my hands and I can't swear to it, but some of the tarnish seems to have faded, letting the gleam of the brass shine through. I hold my breath, ready to feel like a colossal idiot if this doesn't work. I rub my hand over the side of the lamp, startled when it feels more like rubbing skin than metal.  
  
The lamp shakes and that dark blue smoke roils out of it.  
  
"How may I serve you, Master?"  
  
I turn to find Reese standing behind me. "That's Mr. Finch, if you don't mind, and I have a wish for you."  
  
"A new car? A supermodel? A million dollars? Decided to do something about that limp?"  
  
"No," I say, my tone short. "I have another number I want you to help."  
  
"C'mon, you used your first two to help someone else. Do something nice for yourself. You deserve it."  
  
"You don't know anything about me and I'd appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself. Now, the man who needs help is William Henderson." I explain the situation, show him the man's picture, and give him the address. "I wish you would stop this man from being murdered."  
  
"Your wish is my command," the genie says, but unlike before, he doesn't immediately disappear. He regards me for a moment. "I may not know everything about you," he says at last, "but I do know that in three thousand years of being a genie, I've never had anyone use all three of their free wishes to help other people. You are a good and rare human being." He bows and vanishes in a swirl of smoke.  
  
Three thousand years? He looks good for his age.  
  
I wait for him until after dark, but I can't afford to stay up all night again. I have work in the morning. I prepare to leave the library for the night, making sure the hotplate, lights, and monitors are turned off. Before I send the computer to sleep, I check the Machine one more time and discover a new number. I make a note of it in my phone, power everything down, grab my coat off the rack, and head out.  
  
I take a cab to one of my residences. I hesitate to call any of them 'home', since I'm more comfortable and spend more time in my library, but if I'm going to Harold Finch's job in the morning, I really should sleep in Harold Finch's bed. I only have a few identities that I bother to maintain. The rest are disposable, ready if I need them and easily erased afterward. I always imagined that when I found a partner, I'd use them to help research the numbers, to access secure locations to gather information. None of the dangerous legwork, of course -- I hate firearms -- but whatever I could do to help.  
  
I draw up short at the sink, kettle in hand, struck by a sudden thought. Why couldn't I wish for a partner? I could wish for Reese to find me someone with a particular skillset and disposition, someone without psychological or substance abuse problems. I fill the kettle and put it on to boil, then head into the bedroom to make the bed. What if there isn't anyone? What if I couldn't find a partner because I'm asking for too much? What concessions am I willing to make? How far will I let my standards fall?  
  
I spread a sheet, watching the fine linen settle over the mattress. Do I even have to settle? Think about it. I have a genie at my beck and call. _A genie._ That's got to be better than any CIA sniper or Navy Seal. And it's not like I won't be able to pay for as many wishes as I need. I spent the first forty years of my life making myself very rich. Obscenely rich, really. What better way to spend it than on helping people?  
  
Speaking of people who need help...I finish making the bed and set up my laptop at the kitchen table. I make a cup of tea and sit down, putting my newest number into the search engine I created. While the program runs, I sip my tea and stare out the window. This all still feels like an elaborate dream, too good to be true, or like a cosmic joke and I'm the punchline.  
  
My laptop chimes, letting me know that the search has finished. I skim through the information, a frown creasing my brow. This can't be. The Machine is pointing me toward a girl who is already dead. If anyone else had written the code, I would say there was a bug in it, and a substantial one at that, but I had programmed every variable, every line, tested and retested every function. There is nothing wrong with it.  
  
Which means that Theresa Whitaker is still alive.


	4. Chapter 4

After too little sleep, I reluctantly head off to work, briefcase in hand. If I don't put in regular appearances and make progress on the menial tasks assigned to me, it makes it hard to explain why I haven't been fired yet. Because I own the company sounds...elitist. Not to mention that it defeats the purpose of keeping a low profile.  
  
I'm walking down a busy New York sidewalk when I suddenly notice a tall, handsome man at my side, dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt, and dark sunglasses. "Good morning, Mr. Reese," I say, my tone dry. "How did last night go?"  
  
"No problems," he says, sounding amused. "It was just like you said, two men waiting to kill a guy."  
  
"And did you kill them?"  
  
"Didn't you ask me not to?" he replies. I give him a sideways look. "They won't be taking the stairs for a while, but they'll live. They might even consider a change of occupation in the meantime."  
  
"Good. You should get some rest now. We'll need to talk later."  
  
"Your Machine gave you another number," he says. "Who is it?"  
  
"Not now," I say. "I'm busy. Go back to the lamp and wait for me to summon you." I glance around to make sure no one heard that.  
  
"Yes, Master Finch," he says, a bit louder than necessary, in my opinion, but this is New York -- we could be murdering each other in the street and no one would pay any attention. To my great relief, he doesn't disappear in a puff of smoke, but turns and walks away.  
  
"Oh, and Mr. Reese?" I call after him. He glances back. "We'll meet on my schedule, not yours. No more surprise visits."  
  
He nods and blends into the crowd, disappearing from view. The last thing I need is to worry about him popping up unexpectedly everywhere I go.  
  
After a dreary eight hours in a cubicle, trying not to finish too quickly on a database that I could have coded in my sleep, I've done my time and made good my escape. After a quick stop at the library to check the Machine and get the lamp, I call for a car, arranging to be picked up a few blocks away. With as much as I pay my driver, I trust him to keep his mouth shut, but I also don't take any chances. Most people would call me paranoid, but only the paranoid survive.  
  
On the long ride out to the cemetery where Theresa and her family are interred, I sit and stare at the old brass lamp. No doubt about it now, the heavy patina has nearly vanished, the metal glowing warmly in the late afternoon sun. Could it really be three thousand years old? I'm tempted to rub it, to summon Reese and see if he'll answer my questions, but I have a feeling that my driver might have a problem with one man climbing into his car and two getting out.  
  
I wait until we reach the cemetery, carrying the lamp under my arm as I make my way down the neat rows of headstones. I stop before the large, marble family stone, trying to appear casual as I look all around. I'm alone.  
  
I rub the lamp and it shivers at my touch, like a living thing. Reese appears and glances around, his gaze falling upon the stone before us.  
  
"I thought you said you had a number," he says. "This looks like you're already too late."  
  
I tell him about Theresa, her murder, and the fact that my Machine can't be wrong. "I need you to find her," I say. "Can you do that?"  
  
"Just say the words, Master Finch."  
  
I hesitate. "I don't have any free wishes left. I'll have to pay for this one."  
  
"Finding one girl isn't a big thing," he says. "It won't cost much. And if it turns out her life isn't worth what I'm asking, we can forget the whole thing."  
  
The worth of a life...How can anyone place a monetary value on that? "Mr. Reese, I wish for you to find Theresa Whitaker."  
  
He gives me a slight bow, but doesn't disappear. "As you wish. Now, about payment...I'm afraid I'll have to ask for it in advance. Then, if you don't want to pay, there's no harm, no foul."  
  
"That seems fair," I say. "How much do you want?"  
  
"Perhaps we could discuss this back in your car, someplace a bit more private?" he says, glancing around. I lead the way.  
  
"Just out of curiosity," I say as we approach the limousine, "your price -- is it open to negotiation?"  
  
"I don't see why not. I'm very open to persuasion." Something in his tone strikes me as off, but I've had that feeling before and I don't doubt that being a three thousand year old genie has something to do with it.  
  
We climb into the back seat and he closes the door. The privacy screen is already up, the tinted windows blocking us from prying eyes, and I suddenly feel uneasy, almost trapped, with him sitting beside me. He lounges in the leather seat, one arm draped along the back, his long legs stretched out.  
  
"Do you have a phone?" he asks suddenly. "The kind that fits in your pocket?"  
  
"Yes. Why?"  
  
"May I see it?"  
  
"Again, why?"  
  
"Everyone that I've seen since you released me from the lamp has one and I'd like to take a look at it."  
  
I hesitate, then pull the cell out of my pocket. "If you'd like one, I can arrange it," I say, handing it to him. He doesn't answer, his attention on the phone, which he turns over in his hands several times. I jump as his eyes flash, like a flicker of lightning in the distance, and a puff of blue smoke wafts up from my phone. "What the hell did you do?" I ask, grabbing it back from him.  
  
He chuckles. A wave of relief washes over me as the screen lights up, my simple ringtone filling the enclosed space. I look to see who's calling and frown. It says _Reese_ with an unknown number. I glance over at him.  
  
"Better answer it," he says.  
  
I raise the cell to my ear. "Hello?"  
  
"Hello, Master Finch." Reese's voice comes through the phone, but I'm staring right at him and his mouth doesn't move. "I thought this might be more convenient that carrying my lamp around with you. This way, if you want to make a wish, you only need to call."  
  
"Convenient," I agree, and hang up, a little unnerved. "So, how much do you want?" I ask again. I have several thousand on me and several million hidden in various places around the city. The rest is tied up in investments, but not completely unattainable.  
  
"I don't want money."  
  
I blink, only momentarily put off. Of course he doesn't. "Then what do you want? And I hope you take into consideration that some items are harder to procure than others. It might take time, but I can get you anything--"  
  
"Don't worry," he says with a small smirk, "you have what I want."  
  
"Which is?"  
  
He doesn't answer, but he's suddenly on my lap, straddling my legs, one hand cradling the back of my neck, the other cupping my face as he kisses me. _His lips are soft._ I can't move, I can't speak, but I gasp, drawing a sharp breath as he rolls his hips, rubbing his crotch against mine. _His tongue is in my mouth._ What is he doing? What does he want? _He can't want me._  
  
I don't know how long I'm rendered immobile by shock, but I suddenly realize that I'm just sitting there, letting him maul me. I bring my arms up and shove, trying to push him off of me, but it's like trying to move a building. I can't budge him. I feel a terrible, choking sort of panic start to rise up in my throat, and then he draws back, his hands braced against the back of the seat as he looks down at me.  
  
"Is something wrong, Master Finch?" he asks.  
  
"What are you doing?" I ask, my voice hoarse and strained.  
  
"I'm collecting payment."  
  
"I- I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I want sex," he says, leaning down again, his lips hovering over mine. "I spent the last thirty-seven years trapped in that lamp, thirty-seven years as nothing but a formless consciousness, and now that I have a body again, I want to use it."  
  
"That's understandable, really, but I could find someone, hire someone, someone better than me--"  
  
"No, I want you," he says, and God help me, I almost believe him. "A genie's greatest desire is to please their master, and I have never had a master more deserving of pleasure than you."  
  
I feel compelled to argue -- he doesn't know me, doesn't know what I've done -- but he leans closer, moving slowly, his lips brushing against mine. _He tastes good._ I make a soft, breathless sound, almost a whimper, and press my hands to his chest. I don't try to push him away, though. I know I can't. And that scares the hell out of me.  
  
"Please..." I whisper, the pins in my neck preventing me from turning my head to get away from him. "Please don't hurt me."  
  
He stops, drawing back and looking down at my hands, flat against his chest. "If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so," he says, "but this is the cost of your wish. If you don't want to pay--"  
  
"I'll pay," I say, closing my eyes, "just please--"  
  
"I won't hurt you. That's the last thing I want."  
  
I flinch as his hand touches my face again, fingertips soft against my cheek, and I open my eyes, each breath shuddering through me as I stare up at him. I can feel myself trembling as he bows his head, stopping just before his lips touch mine.  
  
"Kiss me," he whispers, and the longing in his voice pulls at something inside of me, igniting a deep and echoing ache beneath my skin. "Please..."  
  
I hesitate. _What the hell am I doing?_ I lean forward, closing the distance between us, and draw a noisy breath as our lips meet. He groans and I can feel him shaking, his hands sliding beneath my jacket.  
  
I'm out of breath, my glasses fogged up, when he draws back, leaving me nonplussed as he slides backward off my lap. As the lenses clear, I find him kneeling on the floor in front of me, my mouth going dry as his large hands cover my knees, a gentle, steady pressure urging my legs apart. Swallowing hard, I shift in the seat, my damaged hip giving a slight twinge as I spread my legs. Those hands slide up the insides of my thighs and I can feel the heat from his skin through my trousers.  
  
I gasp as one hand covers my crotch, fingers teasing my hardening cock. He looks up at me, a flicker of light dancing across his blue eyes, and when he pulls his hand back, I'm startled to find my belt unbuckled, pants unbuttoned, and zipper unzipped.  
  
"How did you do that?"  
  
"I'm a three thousand year old spirit with magical powers," he says with a smirk. "And if you think that's impressive, wait until I get your cock in my mouth." He slides a hand inside my briefs and frees my erection, his breath hot on my skin as his lips part and he takes me into his mouth.  
  
This isn't the first time I've received oral sex, although I can count the number of times on one hand, and it hasn't happened since college, which means it's been...thirty-some years since I've gotten a blowjob. And I haven't even been locked away in a lamp.  
  
My hands curl into fists as he swirls his tongue around the head of my cock, his lips sliding down the shaft as he takes me in. His hands grab my hips, pulling me toward him as he presses closer. He's so strong. My hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into his blazer as he bobs his head in my lap, his mouth so hot and wet and tight, and the _sucking!_ Doesn't he ever _breathe?_  
  
He moans, taking me to the base, his throat squeezing me as he swallows around my flesh, his hands sliding beneath me and gripping my ass. He damn near lifts me off the seat. I cry out, my hands jumping from his shoulders to his head, fingers combing through his hair, holding him to me as I spill myself in his mouth.  
  
Dizzy and gasping, I sink back into the deep leather seat, my whole body trembling from the inside out. I had no idea anything could feel like that. Reese draws back slowly and I shiver as his lips and tongue glide over my softening cock, cleaning me off before he tucks me back in my pants. He rises from the floor of the limo and flops onto the seat beside me with a satisfied sigh.  
  
"Thank you, Master Finch," he says.  
  
It takes a minute before my brain starts working again. "That's it? That's what you wanted?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"But...what did you get out of that?"  
  
"I got to touch you," he says, his voice low, smoldering. "I got to please you. I _did_ please you, didn't I?"  
  
"That you did, I have to admit," I say. "That was...amazing."  
  
"Then I look forward to your next wish," Reese says with a lazy smile. He opens the door and gets out, leaving me alone with a pounding heart and my pants undone. I take several minutes to compose myself before I instruct my driver to take me back to the corner where he picked me up. If he heard anything, he doesn't let on.  
  
I spend the long drive staring at the window, but not really seeing anything beyond the tinted glass. I can't believe what just happened. I didn't even try to negotiate, I just let him have at me, trading sex for favors like a common whore. I can't let it happen again. Next time he might want intercourse, and I will not sell my first time with a man for anything, not to mention that my injuries are unlikely to make it a pleasant experience. I'll just have to convince him to accept something else as payment. Or else stop wishing.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't hear from Reese again until the next morning. I head into work early to finish coding that insufferable database, avoiding most of my co-workers as I make my way to my cubicle. I sit down and set my briefcase on the floor, logging in to my workstation with a sigh. A breath of wind brushes the side of my head and I turn stiffly in my chair, trying to see which of my cubicle neighbors is having a menopausal hot-flash.  
  
"I found her," Reese says, sitting in the corner of my little box, his hands clasped in front of him. "You were right -- she's alive."  
  
"I thought I said no surprise visits," I say, sitting up taller in my chair to peer over the cubicle walls. No one seems to have noticed my sudden visitor.  
  
"I know," he says, "but I thought you would want to see this. Theresa was using it and I don't know what it is." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black plastic box which he sets on the desk in front of me.  
  
"It's a skimmer," I tell him, picking up my briefcase and releasing the catches. "This must be how she's been providing for herself." I grab the skimmer and tuck it out of sight in in the briefcase, a frown creasing my brow as I feel something sticky on my hand. I reach for my handkerchief, but stop as the red color on my skin registers. "Is this blood? What did you do to her?"  
  
"It's not her blood," he says, and I look down at his hands again. He's holding his left hand with his right, bright, fresh blood smeared between his fingers.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I spooked her and she ran. Seems she has trust issues. I tried to stop her and she cut me. I lost her."  
  
"Let me see that," I say, pulling my clean handkerchief out of my pocket. He holds out his hand and I wince at the deep slice across the heel. "I thought you were a three thousand year old spirit with magic powers. How did you get hurt by a girl with a box cutter?  
  
"She caught me off guard."  
  
"But aren't you immortal?" I press the cloth to the injury and see the skin around his eyes tighten in pain.  
  
"Under normal circumstances, I am. I...I don't know how this happened."  
  
I don't believe him, but I don't say anything. I turn his hand over and tie the corners of the handkerchief together to form a makeshift bandage.  
  
"I can give you the address of a clinic where you can get that looked at," I say.  
  
"Or you could wish for it to heal."  
  
I'm not surprised or even disappointed. I've been expecting something like this. "Oh? You mean you still have your powers?"  
  
He frowns. "Why would you think I didn't?"  
  
"I figured if you did, you would have healed yourself already."  
  
Reese gives me a long, appraising look. "That's not how my magic works. I can only serve my master."  
  
"I see. And hijacking my phone and unzipping my pants was serving me?"  
  
"That was my intent, yes," he says, an edge to his tone. "I wanted to make it easier for you to contact me and for me to please you."  
  
"But wouldn't you be serving me if you healed your own injury so that I don't have to pay for frivolous wishes?"  
  
He doesn't like my choice of words, his posture growing stiff. "I suppose a human might be able to rationalize it in such a way, but I'm just a genie and my only thought is how much I want it to stop hurting, which is a purely self-serving reason."  
  
I make a note on a Post-It and hand it to him. "Here's the address for that clinic. They should be able to help."  
  
"What about the girl?" he asks, scowling at the note as he takes it. "Do you wish for me to find her again?"  
  
"No," I say, turning back to my computer. "I can access the data on the skimmer and trace her location when she tries to sell the account numbers online. I'll call you if I need your help again."  
  
I expect him to leave in the same way he arrived, but he stands up and starts to walk away, then turns back and leans down, his hand on my shoulder and his voice low in my ear.  
  
"Was it really that bad?"  
  
"It was...degrading," I reply, sitting forward to pull away from his touch. "My body is not a commodity."  
  
"So that's what a girl's life is worth to you. Perhaps I was mistaken about you."  
  
"I know the feeling," I say. He straightens up and I can feel him standing behind me. Neither of us speaks and after a minute I hear his footsteps retreating. He's barely out of earshot when I hear a familiar voice and look up to find Angie, one of my least unlikable co-workers, leaning her forearms on the edge of the cubicle wall, a small smile twisting the corners of her mouth.  
  
"So...who's your friend, Harold?" she asks. I can't tell if she's asking because she wants to know if he's single or if she thinks he and I would make a cute couple. She's nice enough, just hard to read. I make up a story about him being a headhunter for a rival company and ask her not to spread it around. She promises and I actually believe her.  
  
After she walks away, I try to get to work, but I can't focus. _So that's what a girl's life is worth to you. Perhaps I was mistaken about you._ How dare he. I would give anything, do anything to save a life, including whoring myself out to a horny genie, but that doesn't mean it will be my first choice. I can find Theresa, perhaps I can even help her, without making a deal with a devil. Wishes are too easy and the cost is too great, like a drug, deceptive and seductive, and now that I know that I can't trust him, he will become a tool of last resort.  
  
I should have known he would lie to me. Mythology tells of genies and djinns as trickster spirits, demons out to torment mankind, offering dreams but delivering nightmares. Clearly, he is no different. He said he wouldn't try to make me wish, then he gives me a mind-blowing blowjob and calls it payment, and the next thing I know he gets hurt and loses the girl again, so that I'll make more wishes and he can continue to seduce me, because if he just comes out and rapes me, like he probably wants to, he knows I'll toss his lamp into the East River. He's clever, but I'm wise to his game now. The upper hand is mine.


	6. Chapter 6

While I wait for Theresa to reappear, I do some more digging into her family. Her father, Grant, was involved in real estate, and at the time of his death he was upside-down on a dozen properties, which could explain why he murdered his family and then shot himself, but if that's really what happened, how did Theresa survive? Something about his business dealings doesn't sit right with me, either. All of his investments were made with his own money, except one, which he went into with a real estate holding company called Landale. I'll need to take a closer look at Landale before I can pinpoint what it is about them that makes me uneasy, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were a front for organized crime or illegal dog fighting or something like that.  
  
Before I get a chance to dig deeper into Landale, I get a hit on those account numbers. I trace Theresa when she accesses an unsecured wifi network, offering my cab driver an extra fifty if he can get me there in ten minutes or less. I find her in a run-down Laundromat, huddled over a laptop. As I approach her, she closes the computer and stands up, the wariness of a wild animal in her eyes.  
  
"It's all right, Theresa," I say, holding up my hands and trying to look as harmless as I am. "I want to help you." She backs away from me, looking around for a way out, and I pray she doesn't decide to bolt -- I have no hope of keeping up with her. "I need to know what happened on that boat," I say. "Why did your father kill you mother and brother? How did you get away?"  
  
Her face twists with anger and sorrow, her lip curling as she snarls at me. "My father didn't do that. That man killed them." My hunch was right, it wasn't Grant, which moves Landale to the top of my suspect list. "Now get away from me." She pulls a slim box cutter out of her coat pocket, holding it like she knows how to use it.  
  
"Theresa, please, I'm here to help you. I won't let anyone hurt you."  
  
"You shouldn't lie to kids." The man's voice is heavy, foreign, perhaps eastern European. I see Theresa look past me and tense, her grip on her knife tightening. I turn, my eyes widening and my heart climbing into my throat at the sight of the gun he has leveled at us. Landale is run by suits, they'd never get their own hands dirty, which means this must be someone they hired, a hit man. For a moment, I can't move, then I grab the girl and shove her down behind a bank of dryers, ducking down beside her as the man fires, the shot ricocheting off the metal. The handful of patrons trying to do their laundry scream and run, jostling and shoving to get out of the building. Theresa tries to make a run for it, but I grab her arm and pull her back down.  
  
"Get off me! We're not safe here!" she hisses, trying to jerk free. I'm lucky she doesn't use her box cutter on me.  
  
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit the call button. "Mr. Reese," I say, my voice shaking. "I wish you were here to protect us." Bastard better not ask for payment upfront. I hear footsteps and glance up, my arm moving instinctively to try and shield Theresa as the hit man points his gun at her.  
  
A dark blur flies out of nowhere, slamming the man back against the wall of washers. Reese grapples with him, the gun skittering across the floor. I heave myself up off the floor, biting back a cry at the pain in my leg, and pull Theresa to her feet. I watch, confused as Reese fights with the hit man, throwing punches and kicks, taking blows and getting thrown up against the dryers. He's a genie -- can't he just turn the guy into a poodle or something?  
  
Suddenly, the killer gets the upper-hand, flinging Reese into the plate glass front window. The glass shatters, showering the sidewalk with little squares of safety glass. I wait for him to get up, but he doesn't move. The hit man watches him for a moment, then turns and walks over to his dropped weapon. I scramble back as he picks it up, but there's nowhere to go. I step in front of Theresa as he points the gun at her, squeezing my eyes shut.  
  
Shots ring out and I jump, a panicked sound catching in my throat. It takes only a moment to realize that I haven't been hit and I think my heart stops. I spin around, but Theresa is just standing there, her eyes wide. I think she's in shock, but I don't see any blood on her. I look back at the hit man as he crumples to the floor. Through the broken window, I see Reese climb to his feet, a gun in his hand, and shake the broken glass out of his hair. What is he doing with a gun?  
  
Something brushes past me and I turn as Theresa runs for the door.  
  
"Stop her," I say to Reese, standing just a few feet from the entrance. He watches her run out, his expression hard as he looks back at me. _Son-of-a-bitch._ I'm tempted to tell him to go fuck himself, but I already owe him for one wish, which promises to be awkward, to say the least, when it comes time to pay, and there's no way I can keep up with a teenager. I'd be lucky to catch a ninety year old pushing a walker. I grit my teeth. "I wish you would stop her."  
  
He takes off running and I follow at my own laborious pace. This hit man might be dead, but that doesn't mean Landale -- or whoever is responsible, but I'm betting on Landale -- won't try again. I need to keep her with me until I figure out why they want her dead and how to stop them permanently.  
  
At the corner, I find them waiting for me. I wonder what Reese said to make her stop, but I don't ask. I don't even look at him.  
  
"Who are you?" Theresa asks, her gaze shifting back and forth between us.  
  
"My name is--" I hesitate. "Harold. This is Reese. We're going to keep you safe."  
  
"I'm better off on my own," she says with a shake of her head.  
  
"The people who sent that man to kill you also killed your family, and I don't think they're going to stop. Do you know why your family was targeted? Did it have something to do with your father's real estate business?"  
  
She shrugs. "I don't know. I heard my dad say it was all my uncle Derrick's fault, though, and then that man shot him in the head. He said if anyone ever found out that I was still alive, he'd come back and finish the job."  
  
"Was that him?" I gesture back toward the Laundromat.  
  
"No. Which means he'll be coming for me. Now please, just let me go."  
  
"You can't keep running," I tell her. "I know you don't know me, but you have to trust someone sometime. I can protect you."  
  
She looks up at Reese, then back at me. "Why are you doing this? Why do you care?"  
  
"Because...because if I don't, no one else will. No one else can. No one else knows the things I know." She looks like she doesn't quite know what to make of my answer, or even if she should believe me, but we don't have time for me to try to convince her. I can hear sirens drawing near. "We need to go."  
  
"Where?"  
  
Good question. I can't take her back to the library. "Somewhere safe," I say, and hail a cab. I tell the driver to take us to a hotel across town. That should be safe enough. I call ahead, reserving the entire seventh floor and placing an order for room service. I bet it's been a while since Theresa had a hot meal.  
  
Once we get the girl into one of the rooms, I allow myself a hesitant sigh of relief. She's far from safe, but she has a much better chance than she did an hour ago. While she dives into an overpriced cheeseburger and plate of fries, I take Reese aside.  
  
"I think a company called Landale is behind this," I tell him. "I need you to find out why they want this girl dead and find a way to stop them."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want to try to handle it yourself?" he asks.  
  
I stiffen. "Thanks for reminding how well _that_ worked out. Do you want me to make this wish or not?" He glowers at me. "Unfortunately, it looks like I don't have a choice. I wish for you to find out what Landale is up to and stop them from having Theresa killed." I wait for him to leave, hoping he decides to use the door instead of just disappearing, but he just stands there, staring at me. "What? Are you refusing to grant my wish?"  
  
"No. But you do owe me for two wishes already."  
  
"And I suppose that's the extent of my credit?" I am _not_ letting this demon savage me with a teenage girl in the next room.  
  
"No, but I don't think a small good-faith payment is out of the question."  
  
"Good-faith?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow. "You don't trust me to pay my debts?" He doesn't respond. I am not a violent man, but I'm suddenly struck with the urge to hit him. Instead, I grab him by the front of the shirt, jerk the hotel room door open, and drag him out into the hall. I had asked the manager to keep the housekeeping staff off the floor, so I know we won't be interrupted. "Fine, take your 'good-faith' payment. Take whatever you have to so you'll get out there and stop whoever is trying to kill that girl, because I'll pay whatever you ask, because I _can't_ do this on my own." And I hate it. I hate being helpless, I hate having no choice. _And I hate that he scares me._  
  
He steps toward me and I tense, but don't move away. He puts a hand on my arm, just below my shoulder, his touch light, and I brace myself. "I'm sorry," he says.  
  
I frown. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I shouldn't have questioned your dedication to saving your numbers, and I shouldn't have taken it personally that you don't want to be intimate with me. It's just been so long..." He stares at me, his blue eyes filled with such painful yearning. Then he looks away. "I forget what complicated creatures humans are."  
  
I regard him for a moment. "And genies aren't?" I ask, trying to decide what he expects this apology to get him.  
  
"No, we're really rather simple by comparison. I told you, a genie's greatest desire is to please their master. I thought I was, and then...I shouldn't have asked you to heal me. I am your servant; I had no right."  
  
I look down at his hand, still wrapped in my bloody handkerchief. I guess he didn't go to the clinic. "Does it still hurt?" I ask him.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I don't know if I can risk believing him. "Why were you able to be injured? I know you know." He hesitates. "Tell me and I will accept your apology."  
  
He looks pained as he raises his head, his eyes downcast, unable to meet my gaze. "A genie is essentially a soul bound to an object. I was created, designed for this existence, but the thing about souls is, regardless of whether they grow inside of a living being or are constructed from the ether, they wear and fray, the edges become tattered, they grow thin and tarnished. I've served evil men and carried out their evil wishes, and my soul bears those scars. In the past thousand years, I've spent more time lost than found, decades and centuries spent alone, feeling myself fade slowly away, struggling to hang on in the darkness. And now I'm not even a shadow of what I once was. My powers are weak and when I use them, it leaves me vulnerable.  
  
"I lied because I didn't want you to be disappointed, and I'm sorry."  
  
It seems awfully elaborate for a lie, but like the best lies, there's no way I can verify what he's saying. The rational part of my brain is threatening to go on strike if I even consider this nonsense, but I can't ignore one simple fact -- Reese is a _genie_. I've seen the evidence with my own eyes. Which means he might be telling the truth.  
  
"Apology accepted," I say, deciding to give him a tentative benefit of a doubt. "I can understand why you might think I'd be disappointed, but I'm not. I never could have saved Wheeler and his son, or Mr. Henderson, or Theresa without you, and the fact that you did it without the full extent of your powers makes it all the more impressive." And explains the fistfight in the Laundromat.  
  
"Thank you, Master," he says, finally raising his head and making eye contact, his gaze so intense I have to resist the urge to look away. He leans toward me and I just stand there. I don't try to stop him because I said I wouldn't. His lips cover mine, so soft and warm, his kiss stealing my breath and leaving me dizzy. I grab the shoulders of his jacket, clinging to him as he explores my mouth, and even with tongue, he's not rough or demanding. The only word I have for it is...tender.  
  
When he draws back, I'm left gasping, my skin flushed. "Was that your good-faith payment?"  
  
For a moment, he looks surprised, then glances away, but not before I see the hurt in his eyes. "No, that was a kiss, but I'll take it as payment if you want. I'll go stop Landale now." He walks away and I feel compelled to call after him, but I don't know what to say. I open my mouth, take a breath, but before I can speak, he vanishes in a whirl of smoke. I stare down the empty hall, confused and conflicted. I know he's just manipulating me, playing me like a fiddle, he has to be, but I _want_ to believe him. How long has it been since anyone looked at me the way he does? Has anyone _ever_ looked at me like that?  
  
With a sigh, I return to the hotel room, locking the door behind me. Theresa sits on the sofa, half of her cheeseburger in one hand, the knife from the food tray in the other, eyeing me like she's giving serious thought to slitting my throat. "Where'd the other guy go?" she asks.  
  
"He's going to figure out why people are after you and put a stop to it."  
  
"And then what?"  
  
I hadn't considered that. "You can stop running," I tell her. "I'm sure your Aunt Elizabeth will be glad to know you're alive. Perhaps you could live with her."  
  
She shakes her head. "My dad said it was Uncle Derrick's fault--"  
  
"They're not married anymore," I tell her. She seems to think about that while she finishes her burger.  
  
She looks up at me again. "Is that guy your boyfriend?" she asks, catching me off guard.  
  
"No," I say with a slight frown. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"I saw him kiss you."  
  
I start to ask how, but turn and glance at the peephole in the door. I look back at her and she shrugs, arching an eyebrow as she waits for an explanation.  
  
"It's complicated," I tell her, "but he is _not_ my boyfriend."  
  
"Whatever," she says, rolling her eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

After a rather long and uncomfortable hour attempting to make small talk with Theresa, my phone finally rings. It's Reese. I rise from my chair to answer it, turning my back on the girl. "Hello?"  
  
"It is Landale," he says without preamble. "Turns out the property Grant needed their help buying was contaminated by an oil spill and practically worthless. The government was supposed to clean it up, but they took too long and Landale got tired of waiting for their money, so they had Theresa's family killed. Now that the land is finally cleaned up, it's worth fifty times what Grant paid for it, and Theresa is the legal heir."  
  
"Which is why they want to make sure she can't come forward to claim it. Can you stop them?"  
  
"I'm about to have a little talk with the man in charge."  
  
I hesitate. "Try not to kill him. Unless you have to."  
  
"Of course," he says. "I gotta go." I hang up and turn, startled to find the sofa empty, the girl's bag gone. Damn it. She's halfway down the hall and heading for the elevators.  
  
"Theresa," I call, feeling like I have shards of broken glass where my hip should be as I hobble along as fast as I can. She glances back at me and I'm forced to stop, leaning against the wall as I catch my breath. "You know I can't keep up with you," I say. "Will you at least tell me where you're going?"  
  
She shakes her head. "Thanks for caring, but I'm better off alone."  
  
"I don't think so," I say, ignoring the pain as I limp toward her. "That was Reese on the phone. He knows who is responsible for your family's murder, and he's going to stop them. It won't be much longer. Please, just give us a little more time."  
  
She hesitates, then nods and starts back toward me. I wait until she reaches me before I turn and begin the long walk back to the hotel room. To my surprise, she matches pace with me. "Do you want some help?" she asks.  
  
"I'm fine, thank you," I say, and I'm not sure why, but I add, "I was in an accident a few years ago. Really, I'm lucky to be alive."  
  
"Do you feel lucky?" she asks, her voice quiet. "Or do you wonder why you survived, what makes you so important?"  
  
I glance over at her, her young face shadowed by dark thoughts and burdened by guilt. "Sometimes," I say. "That's why I try to help people like you."  
  
Back in the room, she sits and stares off into the distance, thinking about her family, I'm sure. I hope her aunt will take her in; she's already been through so much, she doesn't deserve to be lost in the foster system. If that is the case, I'm sure I can do something about it. I can have Reese check out the families and I can manipulate the paperwork to make sure she isn't placed with a pedophile or someone in it just for the money. I can arrange for her to go to a good school and pay for a tutor to help her catch up on the last two years she missed, and if she wants to go to college, I can afford tuition wherever she gets accepted.  
  
We are both roused from our thoughts by a faint sound from the hall. I frown. There isn't supposed to be anyone on this floor.  
  
"What was that?" she asks and I motion for her to be quiet. I have a bad feeling.  
  
"Get up," I whisper, limping over to her and pulling her back behind the sofa. A loud, metallic _clang_ makes me jump and we drop to the floor, sitting with our backs against the couch. I peer over the back as the door swings inward, my heart racing as a figure steps into the room. I turn back to Theresa, her face pale and eyes wide, and hold my finger up to my lips as I reach into my suit jacket for my phone.  
  
It's not there.  
  
I close my eyes, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I remember setting it down on the arm of the chair earlier. Theresa grabs my arm as the heavy tread of a man draws closer to our hiding place.  
  
"I need your phone," I whisper. She digs into her jacket pockets and I cringe at the soft jingling of loose change. She hands me her cell and I grip it tight. "When I say, you run," I tell her.  
  
She shakes her head. "I'm staying with you."  
  
"I'll be right behind you," I say, putting my hand in the middle of her back. The footsteps get closer. I draw a sharp breath. "Run. Now." I shove her to her feet and propel her toward the door as I twist my body around, a lance of white fire burning down my spine, but I know the pain won't last. Not this time. The hit man -- it's not possible, but he looks like the same one from the Laundromat -- takes aim at Theresa. The throw her phone, hitting him in the side of the head, and he flinches, whipping around to face me as I heave myself to my feet.  
  
He shoots me. The impact spins me around and I fall against the wall, my left arm heavy, my fingers numb. Then the pain hits, like I've dipped my arm in kerosene and lit a match. I gasp, unable to catch my breath, and even breathing hurts. I look back at the hired killer as he turns away from me, heading for the door.  
  
"Leave her alone, you son-of-a-bitch," I grit out through my teeth as I shove myself away from the wall, stumbling toward him. He looks annoyed as he points his gun at me again, and I know this one will be more than a flesh wound. I hear the shots and I jump, but he's the one who stiffens and falls to the floor. I stare, waiting for him to get back up again, but he doesn't move.  
  
I look up as Reese steps into the room, staring at me with wild, haunted eyes. No doubt about it now -- no one has _ever_ looked at me like that. He steps over to the body and leans down, tearing open the hit man's shirt to reveal a bullet-proof vest, but I can also see a puddle of blood forming beneath him from where Reese hit him in the unprotected side. He rises and glances toward the door as a terrified Theresa Whittaker peers in. She sees me and rushes over.  
  
"Oh, my God, you're bleeding," she says, standing in front of me, her hands held in front of her like she wants to do something but doesn't know what. "He shot you."  
  
"It's just a scratch," I tell her, even though I can feel the blood running down my arm. "We need to go -- someone will have heard the shots and called the police." She hesitates, then turns away, hurrying to grab her bag and find her phone. I pick up my cell and slip it into my pocket. "How did you know?" I ask Reese as he steps over to me.  
  
"I talked to Calhoun," he says, examining the hole in the shoulder of my jacket, the material quickly growing dark and wet. "He said I was too late, he couldn't stop the hit. I got here as quick as I could." He frowns, clearly disappointed in himself for not getting here sooner.  
  
"We're both still alive," I tell him. "That's all that matters."  
  
"I was almost too late," he says and places his hand on my arm, between the elbow and shoulder. His eyes flicker and I feel a strange, cold sensation crawl across my skin, then the pain is gone. He draws back and I turn to the mirror on the wall, staring at my undamaged jacket, the blood stains gone. I raise my arm and flex my fingers, but it's like the wound never happened.  
  
I look back at Reese. "Why did you do that? I didn't make a wish."  
  
"You didn't have to," he says. "My purpose is to serve you; I _want_ to serve you."  
  
Standing in the doorway, Theresa clears her throat. "Could you two lovebirds continue this somewhere else? I don't want to go to jail today."  
  
"Lovebirds?" Reese questions as we follow her down the hall to the elevators.  
  
"She saw you kiss me."  
  
"Does that bother you?"  
  
I don't answer for a moment. I'm of the opinion that my sexuality is no one's concern but mine. I don't try to hide it, however. I am comfortable with who I am. "I suppose not," I say finally. "Although I can imagine a large portion of the population being displeased by two men making out in front of a teenage girl."  
  
"Oh, please," Theresa says, punching the button for the ground floor. "Like I haven't seen worse." We manage to slip out without being detained. Once on the street, I hail a cab.  
  
"Theresa, I want you to go with Reese. He's going to take you to your aunt's house. I'm going to call her and explain what has happened."  
  
"What- what if sh- she doesn't want me?" Theresa asks, her voice growing husky as she fights to keep it steady.  
  
"That's not going to happen," I say, "but if it does, I'll make sure you're taken care of."  
  
"I don't want to go into a foster home. Half the kids on the street ran away from foster homes."  
  
"I'll find a good one, I promise."  
  
"I want to live with you."  
  
That takes me by surprise. "Theresa, you don't even know me."  
  
"I wouldn't know a foster family, either. And I trust you."  
  
"I- I work, I'm busy all day--"  
  
"And I'll have to go to school," she says. "You won't have to do anything -- I'm not a little kid."  
  
"No, you're not," I say. I can't believe I'm even considering this. "All right, if your aunt can't take you and we can't find a foster home that you're happy with, you can live with me."  
  
"All right," she says, nodding and trying to play tough, but I can see the relief in her eyes. She looks at me for another moment, then turns and climbs into the waiting cab.  
  
I look over at Reese and sigh. What the hell have I just agreed to? "I wish you'd take Theresa to her aunt," I say to him. "I'm going to call her now and if it sounds like it isn't going to work out, I'll call you and tell you where to take her instead. Okay?"  
  
"Yes, Master Finch," he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear, and then he climbs in beside Theresa. I watch the taxi drive away, then take out my cell and call Elizabeth Whitaker. I had intended to call her to see what she knew about her ex-husband's dealings with Landale, but in all the excitement, I never got around to it. She answers and sounds tired, perhaps even distraught.  
  
"Elizabeth Whitaker, my name is Arthur Bellenger, I work for the Department of Children and Family Services. Is this a bad time?"  
  
"No, I-- Ah, I mean, my ex-husband was found murdered this morning, but other than that, I'm fine. Who did you say you worked for again?" Derrick was murdered? The hit man must have gone to him to see if he knew where Theresa was.  
  
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I say. "I'm with Children and Family Services. Your niece, Theresa, has been found alive. As the closest living relative, we were hoping you would consent to becoming her guardian."  
  
"Theresa? She's alive?" She sounds in shock. "How? Where was she?"  
  
"She's been living on the streets for the last two years," I say. "I don't have all the information, but apparently her family was killed so that some company could walk away with a piece of property Mr. Whitaker owned. She hasn't wanted to talk to us about it, except to say that her father wasn't a murderer."  
  
She sobs. Poor woman. "Where is she?" she asks after a minute. "Can I come get her? What do I have to sign?"  
  
"One of our people will bring her to you and the paperwork can wait until another time. She's been traumatized and we think it would be best for her to see a familiar face as soon as possible."  
  
"So you- you're just going to give her to me?"  
  
"Is that a problem?"  
  
"No, but-- that just doesn't seem like something a government agency would do. There's always waiting and paperwork."  
  
"This was my call, Mrs. Whitaker," I tell her, "and I thought Theresa had been through enough."  
  
"Thank you. Thank you so much."  
  
I hang up and look around for another taxi. This is the optimum outcome -- Theresa belongs with family -- but I can't help but feel a little disappointed. I climb into the back of the cab that pulls up, giving the driver an address a few blocks from the library. I can use the walk, and the time. I need to figure out how I'm going to handle paying for all these wishes.


	8. Chapter 8

While I wait for Reese, I do a bit of digital housekeeping, finding and erasing the surveillance footage from the bank and bodega across the street from the Laundromat, as well as all the cameras inside the hotel. Turns out the hit man did me a favor, disabling the cameras in the elevator and on the seventh floor before he tried to kill us. I also hack into the Children and Family Services database and alter their records so they aren't completely confused when Elizabeth Whitaker shows up to sign papers they know nothing about. I'm sure it's going to lead to a hassle and an inquiry into the department, but since Arthur Bellenger can't be traced back to me and a clerical error is no reason to take Theresa from her aunt, I don't really care.

Sitting in front of my monitors, I find myself rubbing my arm just below the shoulder. It's a surreal and confusing feeling. I remember getting shot, the impact, the pain, the blood, but that's all I have - a memory.

"Does it still hurt?"

I start at the voice behind me and swivel my chair around to face Reese. "No, it's fine," I say, letting my hand fall to my lap. "How is Theresa?"

"She and her aunt were still hugging and crying on the porch when I left," he says. "I think she'll be fine. She also asked me to thank you again. You saved her life."

" _We_ saved her life," I correct him, "and you saved mine. And now there's something I'd like to take care of."

He shakes his head. "We can discuss payment later-"

"I wish that your injuries were healed," I say.

He stares at me for a moment. "Are you sure that's what you want? You don't have to feel guilty or grateful or anything, just let me serve you and I will be happy."

"I'm sure," I say.

He reaches down and pulls off the bloody handkerchief, the cut on his hand vanished just like my bullet wound. "Thank you, Master. Here, let me clean this-" He makes a motion toward the handkerchief.

"No, that's all right," I say, stopping him. "I have dozens more, and I don't want you to be susceptible to injury over unimportant things." Reese glances around, then throws the dirty cloth into the trash. "And as long as we're both here, I _would_ like to discuss payment. More to the point, I'd like to negotiate."

"All right," he says, his tone wary. "I'm listening."

I take a bracing breath, ready for an argument. "I'd like to take intercourse off the table."

"You want to have sex on the table?" he says, arching an eyebrow. "It might be a bit uncomfortable, but I'm game."

" _Mr. Reese_ ," I say, not amused in the slightest by his quick and cheeky smirk.

"There are several definitions of the word intercourse. Can you be more specific?"

I grit my teeth. "I don't want your dick in my ass. Is that specific enough for you?"

"That'll do. And I'll agree to your conditions, but I want to reserve the right to renegotiate at a later time."

I hesitate. He should not have agreed so easily. But I can't see how he'll be able to trick me, not if he intends to honor his agreement. I was very specific. "All right," I say finally. "Do I need to settle up before you'll grant any more wishes?"

"No, but a sizeable payment would be appreciated," he says, walking toward me. I draw a sharp breath and rise to my feet. I can't run, I can't fight, I can't stop him. _I hate this._ He stops just in front of me. "Why do I frighten you?" he asks softly, his hand rising up to touch my cheek, his fingertips warm. "I exist only to serve. All I want to do is please you. I could never hurt you."

He frightens me because I don't know if I can trust him, but that's beside the point. I don't want to be had like this, I don't want to cheapen these experiences. It's not like I'm saving myself for true love - I'm not naive - but that doesn't mean I want to whore myself to the first genie that comes along. "I just wish you'd accept something else as payment," I say with a sigh.

He kisses me, warm lips on mine, his hands touching my chest, slipping beneath my jacket. I don't have the strength or the will to resist him. I'm only human, after all, and what he's doing isn't fair. His arms wrap around me, hands sliding up and down my back, and he draws me up against him. I can feel the hardness of him through his trousers, and damn it if I'm not starting to react the same way. My body feels electric, his every touch making my skin tingle.

When he pulls away, I'm out of breath. "Come with me," he says, a flash of lightning deep in his eyes. "I have a surprise for you." Equal parts curious, nervous, and aroused, I follow him down one of the disused corridors. He stops outside an empty room, his hand resting on the doorknob. He gives me a small, crooked smile and opens the door, the warm glow of candlelight spilling out into the shadowy hall. Soft music plays, a classical piece, quite lovely, but not something I recognize. I step inside, my attention drawn instantly by the very large bed in the center of the room. It makes it hard to take notice of anything else, but after a moment I see the candles burning in crystal sconces on the walls, on shelves and tables on either side of the bed. I don't see where the music is coming from; the sound simply surrounds me without seeming to have a source.

I turn to Reese. "What is all this?"

"It's for you," he says, stepping close again, his hands finding my hips. "I thought...I thought if I could make you comfortable, you might enjoy being with me, you might actually want it."

Genies really are simple creatures. "How can I want it when I don't have a choice?"

He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, then stops. He leans down, pressing his lips to mine, such a tender kiss that it makes my chest ache. If I had the choice, I would choose him. "If you want it, do you need a choice? I want to serve you, so it doesn't matter that I don't have a choice. I would want it either way."

"And that's how humans and genies are different," I tell him. "I do appreciate... _this_ -" I gesture to the room. "But it can't change how I feel."

He looks conflicted as he begins unbuttoning my waistcoat. "I don't want to displease you, Master Finch, but I want you so much. My body aches for you." He takes my hand and guides it to his crotch, pressing my palm against his hard length. I feel my face grow hot as I pull my hand back. "Please; I can be the best you've ever had."

"That's not setting the bar very high," I say dryly as I try to compose myself. "Fine. I will pay. Are you going to try to collect for everything right now? Because I'm not immortal, I'm an old man, and I can't-"

"You're not old," he whispers, his lips brushing my cheek as he works my jacket off my shoulders and tosses it to the foot of the bed. The waistcoat quickly joins it, followed by the tie. "I won't take any more than you want to give. If you want me to stop, just say so. I don't want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable in any way."

_Too late for that._ I just give a faint nod and toe off my shoes, swallowing hard as he goes down on his knees before me. I don't think this is such a good idea. I remember how it felt to have my cock in his mouth, in his throat, and if he starts sucking on me while I'm standing up, I'll end up falling down. But he doesn't. He peels my socks off, his hands warm against my bare feet. As he stands back up, his hands find my belt, unbuckling it in one smooth, easy motion. The button and zipper are next, then he moves up to my shirt, letting gravity take care of the pants. I shiver as they slide down my legs.

As my shirt winds up on the bed, I'm suddenly standing before him in just my white undershirt and black boxers. Not counting showering after gym class and visits to the doctor, this is the most naked I've ever been in front of another man, and as he reaches for my shirt, his fingers working beneath the thin material, I can't help but tense. _I'm not ready for this._

He stops, hesitating for a moment before leaning in and kissing me, his hands wandering up my sides on top of the shirt. His tongue glides along the valley of my lips, seeking entrance, and with a low groan I open myself to him, his slow, tender explorations making me dizzy and I grab fistfuls of his jacket to steady myself.

Breaking the kiss, he draws back. "I'm suddenly feeling a bit overdressed," he says and his eyes flicker again. I watch as his clothes seem to melt, a thin layer of smoke clinging to his skin before condensing into a pair of dark blue, tailored silk pajamas, and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Do you want me to go slower?"

"No, this is fine," I tell him, swallowing hard as he backs me toward the bed. I keep fluctuating between getting on with this, getting it over with, and getting the hell out of here, but going slower never crosses my mind. I feel the side of the mattress against the backs of my legs and I stiffen, unable to retreat any farther. I sink down onto the bed, scooting toward the middle, and he climbs on beside me, his hand on my shoulder gently laying me back.

"Try to relax," he says and I take a deep breath, but it catches in my throat as he swings his leg over mine and places his hands on either side of my shoulders, looming over me on his hands and knees. What is he doing; what does he want? Does he want me to touch him? I lick dry lips and swallow hard, my hand shaking as I reach toward his crotch, my fingers brushing against the bulge in his pajamas. He groans and closes his eyes, a mix of need and surrender painted across his face. He looks very vulnerable, to be honest.

I gather my courage and press my palm against his hardness, slowly rubbing up and down the length of the shaft. He pants, his whole body trembling, and his eyes open, pupils dilated, his blue eyes dark as he looks down at me.

"Thank you, Master," he whispers, and before I can correct him, his mouth covers mine, distracting me with soft, gentle kisses. I don't even realize that he's lowering his body on top of mine until I feel his weight, his warmth, his erection against me. I gasp into his mouth, my hands pressing against his chest as he shifts from his hands to his forearms, covering me completely, his legs resting along the outsides of mine. I'm trapped beneath him.

"It's all right," he murmurs, placing another light, chaste kiss on my lips. "I won't hurt you." He kisses my cheek, then my jaw. "Trust me, please. Just a little." He nuzzles back to the curve of my jawbone, then kisses my neck just beneath my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine and making my heart race. _I want this._

Without thinking, I try to turn my head, to grant him easier access to my neck, but the pins remind me in no uncertain terms that I can't do that anymore. I close my eyes until the pain fades, my hands balled into fists against Reese's chest, and when I can finally breathe normally again, I realize that Reese has stopped what he was doing and is waiting, just watching me.

"I'm fine," I say, my tone gruff as I feel the heat in my face. I refuse to look at him. I don't want pity. After a moment, he shifts his weight and for an instant, I think he's getting up, that he decided he doesn't want to deal with a cripple, but he just leans on his right arm and slides the left beneath my shoulders, his hand cradling the back of my neck. His thumb and middle finger begin to move in slow circles, massaging the muscles on either side of my scar and I tense, expecting it to hurt, but it doesn't. "What are you doing?"

" _Not_ healing you," he says, "although I don't understand why you don't want me to. You wouldn't even have to wish, just say yes..." I don't respond. He wouldn't understand, but this is something I have to live with. After a minute, he sighs. "All right, I'll stop asking, but if you ever change your mind..." His hand continues its gentle ministrations as his lips resume their slow exploration of my neck, soft kisses that make my pulse jump each time I feel his warm skin against mine. _I just wish I could trust him._

His breath slides beneath the collar of my undershirt, his stubble scratching against my throat as he nuzzles beneath the fabric, pressing a kiss into the crook of my neck. I gasp at my body's reaction, my skin aching for his touch. Suddenly, I want these clothes off. I slide my hands between us, pulling at the hem of my shirt, trying to work it up, and he raises his head.

"Allow me, Master," he says and I hesitate, confused as he grabs the shoulder of the shirt and pulls. I feel a cool, whispery feeling slide over my skin, and my eyes widen as the shirt dissolves into smoke, only to rematerialize in one piece, dangling from his hand. He lets it fall to the floor and lowers his lips to my bare shoulder, kissing, licking, and sucking his way across my body, following the ridge of my clavicle to the hollow at the base of my throat.

I lie there, staring up at the ceiling bathed in candlelight, feeling...conflicted. On one hand, what he's doing is amazing. No one has ever made me feel this way, but on the other hand, this is tantamount to prostitution. I should be ashamed, disgusted with myself. And on another hand, which is more hands than I have, he is an inhuman creature, a spirit, a genie. Am I even safe with him? I groan low in my throat, my eyes sliding closed as he starts along the other side of my collarbone, and I slide my hands up his neck and into his hair, burying my fingers in the thick strands. I think he likes it because he begins to suck harder, hard enough to make my skin tingle, and I realize with a start that he just gave me a hickey.

"Mr. Reese?" I say, my voice hoarse.

He raises his head. "John," he says softly, and kisses the side of my throat. "Please, call me John." He kisses the base of my jaw and I struggle to remain still, the urge to tilt my head back strong. He finds my lips again and I moan as his tongue slides in and out of my mouth, an act I should have found lewd and revolting, but I thrust my tongue against his, taking quick, fevered gasps between deep, wet kisses. My fingers comb through his hair, one hand sliding down the back of his neck, dipping beneath the collar of his pajamas, just wanting to touch him.

His hand roves over my naked chest, warm and sensual, and I groan into his mouth, but when his fingers slide to the side, down over my ribs and the scattered scars, I can't help but tense, expecting him to pull away. Which he does. He raises his head, looking down at me, his hand still resting against my side.

"What is it?" he asks. "Does that hurt?"

"No," I say, feeling foolish for not being able to better master my own insecurities. He regards me for a moment, shifting his weight as he glances down my side. Reflexively, I draw my arm against my side, trying to hide the scars.

"Oh," he says softly, returning his gaze back to my face. "You're worried that if I see your injuries, I won't be attracted to you anymore."

He's right, and the truth hurts, but I try not to let on. "I don't need you to lie to spare my feelings," I say dryly. "I know attraction has nothing to do with this."

"Why do you say that?"

"Are you telling me you've been attracted to every person who's rubbed your lamp?"

He frowns. "No. Why- Oh...you think I do this with all my masters."

I hesitate. "Don't you?"

His expression softens. "No. If I wasn't attracted to you, we'd be doing this in the dark and we'd be done already. I wouldn't kiss you, I wouldn't touch you, I'd just take payment and go back to my lamp. Trust me, I've done it quite often. But this...I might do this once or twice in a millennia, only when I find someone truly special."

I know I shouldn't believe him, but as he kisses me again, sweet and soft, I close my eyes and surrender...as much as I can, anyway. I will let myself believe him until I have reason not to. I groan as his hand slides down my side, over the small scars, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my boxers to stroke my hip, seeking out the large, gnarled ridge of scar tissue that runs down the outside of my thigh.

"This doesn't matter to me," he whispers between kisses, "and while I do find you pleasing to look at and to touch, it is your heart and your mind that attracts me the most. You are brilliant and kind and generous and brave, and I find it easy to love you."

I falter again. He must mean that euphemistically, that he finds it easy to be intimate sexually. Because he can't possibly...I mean, he doesn't know anything about me. He can't-

That cool, whispery feeing slides over my skin again and when I glance over, my boxer shorts are dangling from Reese's hand. He drops them and I swallow hard, my heart racing as I realize that I'm now completely naked, lying beneath him, our bodies separated only by his silk pajamas. I look up at him and he kisses me again, beginning to move on top of me, the cool silk sliding over my bare skin and making me shiver deliciously. He rolls his hips from side to side, slow and sensual, his hard cock rubbing against mine through the thin material, and I groan into his mouth, my eyes sliding closed as I rake my fingers through his hair.

He slides his arms beneath me, holding me against his chest, and I no longer feel trapped, I feel safe, protected. I feel good. The weight of him, the warmth, the smell, the sounds - I had no idea being with someone could feel like this. My experiences with women were all awkward and fumbling, obligatory fucks to keep people from thinking I was queer, which, back in the seventies meant being hassled, ostracized, spit on, beat up, or worse. Now here I am, naked and sweaty beneath one of the most handsome men I've ever seen, my body responding of its own volition, my hips rising to meet his languid movements, a slow rutting that makes me ache deep inside.

I slide my hands down the back of his neck, grabbing his pajama shirt in both fists, pulling at it, pulling at him, wanting him closer, wanting more. Suddenly, it feels like I'm grasping handfuls of sand, the tiny grains slipping through my fingers, leaving me empty-handed. I open my eyes, watching as his pajama shirt dissolves into smoke, slowly trickling away. I can feel the same whispery sensation against my legs and I freeze, my body trembling as the touch of cool silk is replaced by hot skin, Reese's naked body covering mine.

He stops kissing me and raises his head, watching me with careful, worried eyes, like he's afraid I'll make him stop. As the last of the silk and smoke dissipates, I feel his hard cock press against mine, and for a long moment I just lay there, trying to make sense of the way my body is reacting, the shuddering deep inside me, the ache in my skin, the almost uncontrollable desire to rut against him. I've never felt like this before.

"Is this all right?" Reese asks.

"Yes, Mr.- Yes, John," I say, sliding my arms around him. He smiles and presses his lips to mine, my hands grabbing at his shoulders as he begins to rock his hips again, driving all coherent thought from my mind. There is only his cock and mine, heat and friction, sweat and slick and breath and skin. I dig my heels into the bed, lifting my hips to grind against him and he moans into my mouth. He breaks the kiss, making soft, helpless noises in my ear as I slide my fingers up into his hair again.

I lose the ability to process the passage of time, the universe shrinking down to him and me caught in a single moment that stretches into forever. There is nothing else. I shudder and gasp, clutching at him as the orgasm rolls through me like a wave of light and sound, my body suddenly weightless, my pain gone. And then it's too much, his body too heavy, the friction against my cock too intense, almost painful.

"Stop, please," I whimper, but I know he won't. He hasn't come yet, his body tense, his movements urgent, desperate, and I'm trapped beneath him, trapped, helpless-

He stops. I can feel him shaking as he raises his head, his skin flushed and sweaty, his pupils blown as he looks down at me. He doesn't look angry. "Are you all right?" he asks. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No. It's just...too much..." It's a flimsy excuse and some part of me expects him to say as much, but he just smiles softly and leans close, kissing me again, deep, wet, and slow. Then he rolls off of me, stretching out on his back beside me, and I feel my face color as I stare at him, lean and tanned, his skin damp with sweat and his belly smeared with something thicker and slicker, his cock dark and stiff and proud. I glance down at myself, pale and pudgy around the middle, come smeared across my skin. "I should go wash," I mutter, starting to get up.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. "I want to look at you," he says, propping himself up on one elbow beside me and wrapping his hand around his cock. His gaze roves over my naked body as he strokes himself, his eyes dark and hungry. _He's looking at_ me _like that._ I want to do something for him.

"May I?" I ask, reaching my hand toward him. He stops, need and desire etched into his face.

"You don't have to," he says, his voice hoarse.

"I know," I reply. "I want to." His skin is hot and slick as I wrap my fingers around him and he moans, his face and neck flushing even before I begin to move my hand. He pants, his body trembling, his gaze never leaving my face as he cries out, his hips lifting off the bed as he comes, thick drops of semen landing on my forearm and stomach. I lay there for a moment, just staring at him, trying to commit this moment to my long-term memory, to make sure I never forget.

Then I remember the bodily fluids on my skin and I need to go shower. I climb out of bed and start picking up my clothes, acutely self-conscious of him watching me.

"Please," he says quietly, his voice low. "Don't leave yet."

"I need to clean up," I say, not looking at him.

"Let me."

"No, don't-" I say, but I shiver as a thin layer of cool, blue smoke slides over my bare skin. When it dissipates, the semen is gone. I turn to face him. "You have to stop doing that."

"But I want to. I like being useful again."

"But it's frivolous," I say. "It's a waste of your magic and it puts you in danger. Walking down the hall to the bathroom and taking a shower isn't that difficult or inconvenient."

"I wanted you to stay."

"I would have come back."

"Would you have?" He gives me a knowingly look and I have to reconsider my words.

"Okay, maybe I wouldn't have," I admit, looking down at the garments in my hands, the urge to get dressed and get out of there growing stronger. "I'm not- I don't have much experience with this sort of situation. I'm afraid I'm sadly lacking in people skills."

"Good thing I'm not people, then," Reese says with a chuckle. He pats the bed. "Come here. Please."

I hesitate, then limp over and gingerly sit down on the edge of the mattress. His warm hands rise up to touch my back, my shoulders, coaxing me to lie back down beside him. I'm stiff, rigid, uncomfortable as he wraps his arms around me, fitting his naked body against mine like a matching puzzle piece. It feels really good in an unexpected way. I feel safe, protected, wrapped in his strong arms, and for once, just for a few minutes, I allow myself to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've put together a Wordpress website archive for my POI fanfics after I got into a little trouble over at FF.net for content that exceeded the rating. XP I've got a few stories over there that I haven't gotten around to posting here, so if you want to check it out, the address is katicalockefanfic.wordpress.com


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